


A Study in Sexuality

by Jupiter_Ash



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John is confused, M/M, Sexuality, Sherlock is Sherlock, not a linear story, what's in a label
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John is straight, totally straight, so straight that he’d never even consider another man?  What would happen if he found himself falling for Sherlock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another old story, first posted to my journal in September 2010, now finally making it's way to AO3. 
> 
> I wrote this because at the time there were no stories that really dealt with Sherlock/straight!John. Most Sherlock/John stories make John bi, bi-curious, closeted, repressed or unaware – nothing wrong with that. The thought then struck me, what would happen if John really was straight – yes, really straight – and yet still fell for Sherlock? What would that do to him? Is John really straight in this story? Well, that's up to the reader to decide. This was always a story about questions more than answers.
> 
> Not Season 2 compliant.

*-*-*

He wasn’t gay.

*-*-*

Harry came out while he was away at university. He might not have been there but he heard all about it. He wasn’t surprised, just as he hadn’t been surprised when he’d found her throwing up in the toilet, or when she’d cut her hair short and dyed it blue, or when she’d come home with a tattoo on her arm. Harry had always been the more flamboyant one, the one who liked to attract and court attention. She liked to make a statement.

He was more content to fade into the background, to play second fiddle and avoid the fireworks.

Neither minded the role they played and each left the other alone to perfect it.

*-*-*

It was fine. It was all fine.

*-*-*

He liked women. He liked women a lot. He wasn’t perhaps as much of a playboy as some of his army buddies, but he was no slouch.

He liked breasts. He liked the way they looked, the way they felt, the way they tasted.

He liked legs as well but he would consider himself a breast man.

Size wasn’t as much an issue, he just liked them for what they were; breasts. He figured that made him a typical heterosexual male.

*-*-*

He got the impression that Sherlock wasn’t interested in anyone. Certainly there was no sign that he was attracted to anyone. He ignored it when men gave him the once over and seemed confused when women tried to talk to him.

He had never met someone who was asexual before. He’d read a little about it and from what he could tell Sherlock fulfilled many of the criteria. It honestly didn’t matter though. Sherlock had made it perfectly clear that he preferred the mental to the physical, the exhilaration of the chase to the rush of orgasm.

It was fine. It was all fine.

*-*-*

“Who was that?”

“Old friend.”

“Friend?”

*-*-*

He had never ever considered that he might be anything but straight. Even as a teenager he hadn’t had a crush on any of his male friends, even fleetingly. He liked girls, sometimes he even liked the same girl his sister did, but that was just one of the odd things that happened in their family.

Being in the army was no different. Even after long stretches with only other men for company, he never even considered anything else. He saw men naked all the time. He was a doctor and a soldier. He knew what men looked like, even men at their peak physical health. It never did anything for him. The male form was crude and somewhat silly. He preferred the more compact and aesthetically pleasing female form.

*-*-*

They were in the main room.

He’d just come back from Sarah’s, opened the door and there they were; kissing.

He froze on the spot.

He had seen two men kiss before, of course he had, but this was different, this was Sherlock.

The sight brought a bad taste to his mouth.

It was hardly the most outrageous kiss.

The two men were simply standing still, the only real movement being their mouths. Sherlock was jacketless and pale against his burgundy shirt, his hands lightly splayed on the stranger’s hips, not grasping or holding, simply resting. The other man had one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other was gently cradling Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb gently stroking.

Their lips were pressed together but parted, their eyes closed as their tongues moved lazily around. There was no urgency, no embarrassment, just two men taking the moment to enjoy each other.

A strange sensation uncurled in his stomach.

Then Sherlock moaned, just softly, and the sensation intensified.

Turning he fled.

*-*-*

Married to the job?

Looked like he was having an affair.

*-*-*

He dreamed about Sherlock, about the kiss, about the hands, everything.

He dreamed he was the one being kissed. He dreamed he was the one softly caressing Sherlock’s cheek. He dreamed he was the one who was later carefully pressed against a wall while warm hands stroked under his clothing and unbuckled his jeans.

The first time he woke up horrified.

The second time he woke up panting.

The third time he woke up achingly hard.

*-*-*

Sarah was pretty, she was intelligent, and she was nice. She was everything he looked for in a potential partner. As a bonus she also seemed to like him and was not put off by his complex friendship with Sherlock. He didn’t think many women would understand that and even fewer would want to consider seeing him again after his semi-demented flatmate turned up on their first date and then almost got them killed.

Things were going rather well.

The speed of their relationship quickened after the Moriarty incident and the sex was… well it was nice, very nice indeed.

Then he saw Sherlock kissing.

*-*-*

He waited until he heard the door shut. Then he waited for another ten minutes. Then he found his legs weren’t cooperating so he waited longer.

Half an hour later he made it back downstairs. Sherlock was alone, still jacketless, sat cross-legged on his chair reading a book. Only the slight swelling of his lips suggested there was anything amiss.

“He’s gone then?” he said trying to sound as casual as possible and knowing he was failing drastically.

“Evidentially,” Sherlock said blandly turning over the page of his book with a sharp flick of his wrist.

His eyes were drawn to the long fingers, the narrow, pale wrist and he swallowed.

“Who was that?”

“Old friend.”

He made it to his own chair before his leg started to psychosomatically ache. He rubbed at it.

“Friend?”

“Lover.”

The ache worsened. He clenched his hand into a fist.

“Try not to look so surprised. Just because I’m not currently pursuing a relationship doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past.”

Oh.

“So you are….”

“No.”

He blinked, his hand pausing in mid flex. “Sorry?”

“You were about to ask me if I’m gay,” Sherlock said without even glancing up. “I thought I would save you the awkward trouble.”

“Right.” He licked his lips. “So you’re….”

“No.”

Sherlock turned another page.

He frowned. “You don’t even know what I was about to ask.”

“You were about to ask if I’m therefore either bisexual or bi-curious. A logical question considering what you know of me. You did, after all, just walk in on me kissing a man I have revealed to have been a former lover. Again, I just thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“Right,” he said again, mainly for a lack of anything else to say.

“Labels, John,” Sherlock said glancing up briefly and then looking back at his book. “They’re just labels, nothing more.”

The conversation ended and he was no closer to understanding his flatmate than he had been before it had started.

He went to make tea and tried not to think of Sherlock as having a sexuality at all.

*-*-*

He had gay friends. That is to say, he knew some gay people and his sister was a lesbian. The army was not exactly the most conducive place for meeting gay people although it was far more open than it had been. He certainly wouldn’t say he was homophobic in any way and nor would he qualify that sentence with stating that his sister was gay. To him it was fine, it was all fine. What other people chose to do or share their bed with was no business of his. It was just, personally, the idea of kissing another man seemed so wrong to him, but that was because he was straight.

He had never wanted to or even thought about kissing another man.

*-*-*

“You’re avoiding me.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“And you’ve been acting oddly ever since you caught me kissing.”

“No, I….”

“When we first met you told me it was fine, it was all fine. Were you lying?”

*-*-*

His dreams didn’t just stop at kissing.

Somehow without his knowledge or his consent they started to go further. Hands became involved. Long hands with elegant and talented fingers, fingers that stroked, that touched, that danced, fingers that teased and sought out places he had never known existed. It felt so good and yet at the same time was so terribly, terribly bad.

*-*-*

“I wish I knew how to quit you.”

*-*-*

Living with Sherlock was like living with a whirl wind. It could sweep you up and take you on the journey of your life, or it could destroy you in a matter of seconds. It was like a heady rush. His energy, his passion, his intensity, the way he would move with so much precision and control. So much movement, so much concentration and then that moment when he would stop and look at you, really look at you, because you’d done something, because you’d said something, because you’d worked something out and suddenly, for a brief moment, his entire attention was on you and he’d look at you with an expression of fondness, of pride and of unabashed affection.

There was nothing better than that moment, but like all drugs he is starting to become addicted.

He lived for those moments.

*-*-*

“I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”

“I’m not his date!”

*-*-*

The film was Sarah’s choice. He hadn’t seen it before but he wondered what it was that made her think he might enjoy a movie about gay cowboys.

He didn’t protest. After their latest shag he was amenable to nearly anything. It did afford him the opportunity for snuggling on the sofa. She was warm and soft and her breasts pressed against him in a delightful way.

His mobile didn’t chime until they were most the way through the movie.

Sarah said nothing as he shifted to read it.

Double homicide.  
Need you.  
SH

He had a choice of course. That was the beauty of texts, they could be ignored. He was under no obligation to simply drop everything and go. This was his personal time, his time with Sarah, his date. Sherlock might complain and sulk but he would understand, or at least he would accept it and move on. He could quite easily stay here in the comfortable warmth and be more than able to justify it. After all, a text was just a text.

And yet all three of them knew he would not be able to ignore it.

Sarah barely protested when he pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered his apology. Grabbing his jacket the last thing he heard was from the film.

“I wish I knew how to quit you.”

He stepped out into the night.

*-*-*

It was cool enough for Sherlock to be back wearing that coat again. It billowed as he walked and swirled when he turned.

He wasn’t one for noticing fashion or clothing but Sherlock’s coat was hard to miss. It was part of the man; one part magician’s cloak as he twirled around the crime scene dazzling with his brilliance, plucking rabbits from thin air; one part super hero’s cape, flapping behind him as he took on the world.

There were times when he could not help but stare, as the coat moved with such ease and elegance, bold and defined, out of his class and out of his reach.

*-*-*

“You’ve stopped correcting them.”

“Hmm, what?”

“People who presume we’re a couple. You’ve stopped telling them otherwise.”

“Have I?”

“You know you have. I’m just curious as to why.”

“Well… ahm… maybe it’s because it’s pointless. People will presume what they want to presume.”

“…”

“I don’t see you correcting them either.”

“No… Look, across the street, that’s him. Quick, before he gets away.”

*-*-*

There are times when Sherlock looked at him when he felt as if he had been stripped bare and x-rayed to the bone. It felt as if there was nothing that Sherlock didn’t know about him, no thought that passed through his head that Sherlock hadn’t previous considered, no action he could take that Sherlock hadn’t pre-determined.

There are times when he felt naked and small, when his essence could be reduced to a withering glare or a pitiful look. He felt like a sapling engulfed by the shadow of Sherlock’s brilliance, struggling to stay alive in a world that contains such a person.

There are times when Sherlock looked at him like he was the most important person in the world.

Those times make everything else worthwhile.

*-*-*

He had been in love before.

Before Sherlock, before Afghanistan, before the army, he had loved a woman and he had wanted to marry her. He joined the army instead. It was perhaps one of the few things Sherlock did not know about him, or at least he thought he didn’t know, it was hard to be sure sometimes.

One thing was for certain though, he knew what love felt like.

*-*-*

The dreams didn’t stop. They weren’t every night but they still continued. Sherlock kissing, Sherlock kissing him. Sherlock and sex, sex and Sherlock. Hands and mouths and fingers and tongues. Stroking and licking and fondling and tasting.

He woke up with a start, with queasiness in his stomach and a hard-on that refused to go away. Screwing his eyes closed he twisted his head away as if trying to deny what he had seen. One hand fisted to his mouth, the other down his pyjamas bottoms.

It was Sarah’s name he groaned when he spilled across his hand… at least he believed it was.

*-*-*

Sherlock’s neck was long and pale, his fingers elegant and agile, his body slim but sure. He moved with the grace of a dancer, the steel of a panther, and the command of a world leader. His eyes were a silver blue but changed colour depending upon his mood and clothing. He could pretend to be anyone he wanted to be, had a tongue as sharp as his mind, but his true smile was as brilliant as the sun.

He also barely missed a thing.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Yes. Yes, he was avoiding him, because the less he saw Sherlock the less likely it was that he would dream about him.

“Of course I’m not.”

Me thinks the lady protests too much.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ve been acting oddly ever since you caught me kissing.”

Hands resting on hips, a thumb stroking a cheek, lips moving and tongues meeting. He had no way of preventing the slight blush.

“No, I….”

A tip of the head, an apprising look. “When we first met you told me it was fine, it was all fine.” A small frown. “Were you lying?”

Harry and Clara. Gary from med school and his partner Rob.

“No. No, of course not. I told you, girlfriend, boyfriend, no one at all, its all fine.”

“So why are you…?”

“I’m not avoiding you, Sherlock! I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

Busy doing anything that didn’t involve spending as much time with Sherlock because the more time he spent, the more he noticed.

*-*-*

“How’s Sarah?”

“Sarah’s fine, she’s good.”

“And Sherlock?”

“He’s… uh, yeah, he’s good too.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

*-*-*

He watched in silence as Sherlock flirted his way to the information they needed. It was a brilliant performance, one of his best, truly consummate. Within minutes the other man was eating out of Sherlock’s hands, hanging onto his every word.

It made his stomach churn.

His fist tightened as they walked out again, his teeth clenched in memory of the smile, the playful gaze and the lingering looks. It had been the wink that had done it in the end.

“Problem?”

Oh yes.

“You just led him on.” His tone was brisk and sharp.

Sherlock was unrepentant. “I just got the name of our key suspect.”

“You made him think you might call him.”

“His face is aesthetically pleasing, his mind is not as dull as most and from his clothing he is obviously unattached, calling him is an option not outside the realm of possibility.”

That he had not been expecting.

*-*-*

“Things can’t go on like this.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”

*-*-*

He had been nineteen when he’d had his heart broken. They had been together for just five months but it had been deep, passionate and in his eyes at least, perfect.

She left him.

Three weeks later he found out she was dating someone else.

He had thrown himself into his studies and finished the year with the third highest grades. He never did find out the medical cure for a broken heart.

*-*-*

By the time he ended up talking to Harry he knew his relationship with Sarah was in trouble.

Harry was the last person he went to for relationship advice, but it turned out that since finishing his therapy he had no one else to talk to. Not that he had set out to talk to her about his relationship but he had forgotten how persistent she could be when she wanted, and how well she knew him.

He should have known it would be a mistake to agree to meet for a catch up.

“Sarah’s fine, she’s good.”

He shifted in his seat and fought the impulse to clear his throat as Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“And Sherlock?” she asked sipping her surprisingly alcoholic free drink.

“He’s… uh, yeah, he’s good too.”

Harry raised an eyebrow and sank back in her chair. “Then why are you talking to me?”

Because his life was complicated and in trouble and she was the only person he could think of whose own life was more so than his.

Not that he wanted to talk about it mind.

*-*-*

Sherlock almost died… again.

In fact it was so close that for a split second he had thought that perhaps he had been too late, that this time….

It did not bear thinking about.

Sherlock’s skin had felt so cold when they had found him, locked as he had been in the meat storage freezer. Even Lestrade’s expression had tightened before making sure an ambulance was ordered.

Sherlock always looked pale, but in the blue glow of the freezer light he looked virtually translucent.

He was suffered from moderate hypothermia, his body shaking in an attempt to maintain some heat. The fight previous to him having been dumped there had left him dazed and injured, unable to do anything physical to conserve his body heat. He was barely conscious when they found him but had still managed a small smile when he realised he was alive.

“John… knew you’d find me.”

The words were enough.

*-*-*

The thing with Sarah was good, it was better than good actually, it was bloody brilliant, but he wasn’t in love with her. It was comfortable and nice, the sex was good and she made him laugh and want to be a better person, but it simply wasn’t enough.

The problem was she knew it too.

They both lost their tempers as everything neither had been saying finally all came out.

“I care for you, John, and I know you feel the same for me as well, but it’s not enough. Things can’t go on like this.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock.”

The words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to censor them. It wasn’t even as if he had been distracted or anything. He had realised his mistake immediately but it was already too late.

“Sarah… I mean… shit. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The problem was she was so understanding. She had always been so understanding, never moaning when he abandoned her yet again to run round the city with his demanding sociopathic flatmate. This was just one more thing for him to feel guilty about.

“I can’t compete with him. I don’t know what it is between the two of you but you’re always going to put him first. I thought I was alright with that, but… I’m sorry, John, but this is over.”

*-*-*

The dreams changed but they still haunted him. Sherlock’s touch became cold. His lips are blue, like his eyes, and he ached to warm them with his own. But the words from the lips are mocking, taunting him, and the fingers down his back make him shiver.

There was no arousal now, just the cold, hard burn of something deeper.

*-*-*

“She broke up with you then.”

Sherlock was lying on the sofa when he got in, jacketless and casual, his legs crossed at his ankles and a book in his hands.

He stops in the door way, his hands clenching into fists.

“Yes. Yes, she did.”

He suddenly feels angry and tired.

“I… I don’t want to talk about it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him but shut his mouth. Then he returned to his book. “Mrs Hudson dropped in some cookies while you were out and Lestrade called to say they have finally arrested the third Macfarlane brother.”

“Oh, good. That’s good.”

“Quite. I also believe it’s your turn to pick the movie for tonight. Chinese or Indian? I’ll order.”

“Uh, Indian.”

“Good. Usual I take it? If you want a shower first there’s plenty of hot water and the gold fish are no longer in the sink.”

He stood and blinked for a moment wondering if somehow he had wandered into some kind of alternative dimension.

“Oh… thanks.”

He takes the shower, standing under the warm spray for much longer than he normally would. When he returned to the main room he discovered the food already waiting for him, still piping hot, and Casino Royale in the machine ready to go.

*-*-*

“Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

*-*-*

He looked up porn on the internet. He wiped the history afterwards but suspected Sherlock knew what he’s doing anyway.

Some of the stuff he stumbled upon included male on male gay action. He frowned when he saw it and part of him was curious enough to not switch it off straight away. The men were handsome, he supposed, certainly well built, not that different from the guys in the diet coke adverts. They looked like men though, all silly and dangly.

It did nothing for him except remind him that he does not find the male body even remotely attractive.

He wondered what exactly that meant.

*-*-*

It was impossible not to watch Sherlock when he was working his magic. He had forgotten how heady the rush could be, when his flatmate’s entire attention was on him, when he graced him with that smile.

“Twenty quid says they’re shagging,” he overheard an officer say while Sherlock pranced around the crime scene like a child in a candy store.

He wanted to go over and punch the man’s face in for saying such a thing, because of course they’re not shagging. He’s not gay for one and Sherlock is far from interested, and suggesting otherwise was to cheapen what they did have.

He didn’t though, just crossed his arms and gritted his teeth until Sherlock called him over for a second opinion and smiled that smile when he pointed out that if this was a theft then why steal her ring and watch but leave her mobile and necklace. In that moment there is just the two of them and the rest of the world had disappeared.

*-*-*

“John, would you like me to kiss you?”

Curious, probing eyes. Pale blue with a thin green band.

“I’m… I’m not gay.”

Slightly parted lips. Shapely and enticing.

“I know.”

*-*-*

The first day they met he found himself agreeing to see a flat together. The second day he visited a crime scene, was kidnapped and then killed a man. The third day he moved all his belongings – meagre as they were – into his new home and his life with Sherlock Holmes had begun.

Nothing was simple after that.

*-*-*

The young man could barely keep his hands to himself and his eyes off Sherlock’s arse. In response it was all he could do to keep his arms crossed and his temper in check.

With one cold observation, Sherlock put the man in is place. It was brutal and precise, like a knife through the heart.

The man backed away clearly hurt and confused. It was obvious he had not been expecting such a harsh put down.

In any other situation he would have felt sorry for him.

He didn’t.

*-*-*

Lestrade asked him why he did it, why he would risk his life to take a bullet for Sherlock. He couldn’t really answer because it was just something he had done and it was something that he would do again.

He had been plagued by that question again when he came to writing it up on his blog and realised that it was less a question of why and more a matter of because.

‘It was worth it’ he wrote. ‘It was worth every pain, every risk, every wound. People say he has no heart, a sociopath who cares for no-one. He does little to dispel this myth, but they’re wrong because for a moment I saw the fear in his eyes, the shaking of his lips. For a moment the impassive mask cracked and I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great mind… and it was aimed at me.’

His hands shook as he typed and at the last line he had to sit back and stare.

He deleted the entry.

*-*-*

He wasn’t gay but he was in love with his best friend – his best male friend. He had almost managed to convince himself that his friend cared for him back.

Everything was so screwed up. He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t attracted to men, he wasn’t even attracted to Sherlock, not like the way he had been attracted to Sarah for instance, but even so, there was something about the other man that drew him in, that had grabbed him from the start and refused to let go.

It was like a form of obsession. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Sherlock. There was little he hadn’t already done. He would follow the man to the end of the world and beyond. Sherlock was the most important person in his life and he wanted to be the most important in Sherlock’s. There was no where he wanted to be more. The mere idea of anyone else touching Sherlock, kissing Sherlock, having sex with Sherlock, brought bile to his mouth.

It was obsessive. It was possessive.

It was love.

*-*-*

“Are you aware of how possessive you were acting back there?”

They had finished the case – the aunt had had the jewels – and returned to Baker Street late in the evening, five hours after they had left.

He had barely managed to slip his coat off before Sherlock aimed the question at him.

“Hmm, sorry?”

“Possessive. Jealous. Overprotective. From the tightness of your jaw, the furrowing of your brow, the way your fists had been clenched and the number of times you had rubbed your leg, I deduced you would have lost your temper within three minutes, saying something in public that you would come to regret. I thought I would save you the future embarrassment and removed him from our presence. What I am more curious about is whether you were aware of what you were doing?”

It was true, it was all true. Of course it was, this was Sherlock bloody Holmes who was saying it, but that didn’t change the fact that he had wanted to punch the man and shout “mine” at the top of his lungs.

Possessive. God it was so true.

“I…” he started but he lost what other words there might have been.

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, a thoughtful look on his face. “Interesting.”

The eyes were intense. He was the centre of Sherlock’s attention and it was like adrenaline hitting his system. His mouth went dry.

“Your pupils are dilating, your heart rate increased, your skin flushed.” A small smile spread across Sherlock’s face and then the detective was stepping forward.

The natural reaction was to run, every instinct in his body telling him that staying would be a big mistake, and yet the ache in is leg – psychosomatic or not – was gone and his hand was perfect steady.

“Yes, well, we have been running.”

“No, this is something new.”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“You’ve been watching me,” Sherlock said with the conviction of a man who knows he is right. “Months and months, ever since you walked in on me kissing... Oh.” A twitch of the lips. The clasping of hands. The widening of his eyes. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course. This isn’t about me… this is about you.”

“No… uh… what?”

“How could I have missed it?” The eyes flickered and the body moved closer. “John,” Sherlock said, his voice low and seemed to caress his name, “would you like me to kiss you?”

The words barely registered. All he was aware of were the curious, probing eyes, so pale except for the thin green band darkening the edge of the pupil.

“I’m… I’m not gay,” he managed because it was the only thing he was sure of.

Sherlock’s lips parted slightly and he could not help but drop his gaze to look at them. They were shapely in a way that a man’s had no right to be and they looked so enticing.

“I know,” Sherlock said and moved in.

He did nothing to stop the kiss.

*-*-*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if John is straight, totally straight, so straight that he’d never even consider another man? What would happen if he found himself falling for Sherlock?

*-*-*

His first kiss had been in the playground at school when he had been ten. He had been short, quiet and slightly chubby, but he had been sweet – apparently.

He didn’t play football unlike most of the other boys, but spent his time with a couple of other boys and a few of the girls. He didn’t have a girlfriend, he wasn’t cool like that, but girls didn’t mind him talking to them.

Then he saw one of the girls sitting on her own. Her name was Beth. She wasn’t one of the popular girls, or the naughty ones, or the sporty ones. She was rather ordinary, with long brown hair and a slightly turned up nose. She wasn’t normally without friends though, so he went over to her, all awkwardness and baggy jumper.

She seemed surprised when he sat down next to her but she didn’t jump up and run away. So they chatted. She told him that the other girls had accused her of breaking their science project. She had, but it had been an accident, she hadn’t meant to knock into the table and send it to the floor. Now they weren’t talking to her.

He listened with all the wisdom of a ten year old boy, told her they were idiots and that they would forget about it by tomorrow. She had seemed pleased by this and before he knew it she had leant over and planted a firm kiss on his lips with the declaration that he was really sweet.

It took him by surprise of course but he couldn’t help but feel really pleased.

That was the most surprising kiss of his life… until Sherlock.

*-*-*

Kissing Sherlock was nothing like the dreams. It was so much better than that. It was real.

There were so many things his mind had not been able to fill in that in reality were overpowering. The smell of Sherlock; his expensive deodorant combined with his shampoo, borrowed shower gel and the faintest hint of roses from the plug in air fresheners from the house of their last case. The feel of a warm, wet mouth, softer than expected lips, a strong but agile tongue, and the slight roughness of his cheek. The sound of their mixed breathing, of little gasps and wet mouths.

It felt so much more than a kiss.

His mind was confused – this was a man and he wasn’t gay – but his senses screamed that this was Sherlock kissing him and his body told him it felt good, very good.

They broke away and he realised he had a hand in his friend’s hair and a stirring in his trousers.

“What?” he said his mind still confused as blue eyes stared down at him and fingers traced his waist. “Sherlock?”

“Shhh,” Sherlock said and then the mouth was back and teeth nipped at his lips. The fingers slipped under his jumper leaving lines of fire everywhere they touched.

“Relax. Don’t think about it. Just go with what your body is telling you.”

Each word was breathed against his mouth, his skin, each point punctuated by a kiss or a lick or a nip.

“You want me. You’ve wanted me for months, ever since you saw that kiss. Thinking about me in a sexual way turns you on… but the idea of me with anyone else makes you so… very… jealous.”

The mouth, the hands, the fingers… god the fingers. It was all he could do not to gasp.

“Your mind and your body are in a constant battle. You’re not attracted to men and yet there is something about me that you desire. This confuses you. You like it when my attention is fully on you. It gives you a rush, like adrenaline. Sex is a form of that. All that attention, all that intensity, me worshiping your body, finding every little part of you that makes you shiver, makes you moan… makes you come.”

The mouth latched onto the sensitive place behind his ear and his knees began to buckle.

“Oh god.”

There was a chuckle, a warm tongue and very nimble fingers. “Sherlock,” came the deep voice, “but I understand the confusion.”

Fingers curled around the straining bulge in his trousers, and in that moment he knew he was lost.

*-*-*

He lost his virginity at seventeen. It had hardly been the most memorable moment.

The second attempt had been better.

*-*-*

Sherlock’s room was the closest and he wasn’t thinking enough to object.

The sheets bunched beneath his back, their clothes were dropped haphazardly across the room and his skin burnt with every touch of Sherlock’s fingers.

His brain told him that this was wrong but for the first time he managed to push it aside and concentrated on the physical sensations.

Sherlock was staring at him with unmasked desire and fascination, blue eyes intense and intoxicating. His body was pale and lithe, his chest almost hairless, his hips narrow. He leant over him like a panther ready to pounce and played his body like a maestro.

He went with the sensations, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him down for more of those kisses, rocking his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts against him over and over again.

His orgasm hit him with an intensity he had not expected and he saw Sherlock’s eyes widen just a little more before the other man too reached climax.

They rolled away from each other, tissues were found and sheets moved, but there was little time to think as the exertions of the day finally caught up with him and he collapsed into a pleasant, sated doze.

*-*-*

“What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two.”

*-*-*

The sheets felt strange against his bare skin. He felt hot and sticky. He could feel movement beside him, hear the tapping of phone keys and the soft whirl of a laptop. A long leg shifted against his, naked and hairy.

He sucked in a deep breath.

“You’re freaking out,” the deep voice said from beside him.

He closed his eyes again desperate to control his breathing and his stomach. Now he was awake again the situation was finally making itself clear. He had had sex with another man. He’d kissed and fondled another man. He had traces of another man’s semen still on his body.

“Stop thinking about it, John, or your mind will reject it.”

He’d wrapped his legs around another man’s body, rubbed his cock against another man’s cock, gasped and begged as another man….

He rolled out of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, leaning over the toilet as his stomach emptied.

*-*-*

“How can you be so calm? We had sex, Sherlock!”

“I am aware of that, John. I was there.”

*-*-*

He took a shower. A very long, very hot shower.

He knew exactly what he was doing but he couldn’t help but scratch his nails across his skin, red lines trailing after them.

He felt queasy. He couldn’t help it. He could still remember the taste of Sherlock’s skin, the feel of the body pressing into his, the small gasp that had left his mouth at the point of orgasm.

He rested his head against the cool tiles and resisted the urge to bang his fist against the wall. His nails, short as they were, pressed tightly into his palms although he could barely feel them.

He sucked in a deep breath. He was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen and done things most couldn’t imagine. This was nothing.

He tipped his head under the spray and washed his hair with determination and force.

*-*-*

“Twenty quid says they’re shagging.”

The memory was enough to make his skin crawl.

*-*-*

Sherlock was up and changed when he left the bathroom, sat in his customary chair in the main room, fingers pressed together as in prayer.

Their eyes met.

He fled to the sanctuary of his own room.

*-*-*

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

*-*-*

It was the middle of the night. By all rights he should have been asleep.

He wasn’t.

He sat on his bed. It was neatly made, military precision, years of practice. It was comforting, reliable, familiar.

He lifted his head and pushed his chin out. He was John Watson, he had stared death in the eyes and survived, he would not run away.

*-*-*

He took each step carefully and with precision. He crossed the room and sat down on his chair.

Sherlock hadn’t moved.

“That…” he said carefully and neutrally, “should not have happened.”

He grasped his hands in his lap and met his flatmate’s unwavering gaze.

“It was a mistake. Just a mistake. Adrenaline left over from the case, we weren’t thinking, and… well… I hardly think it will happen again.”

There, he had said it.

Sherlock’s shirt collar was open, a red mark branding the skin at the bottom of his neck, a shock of colour against the paleness of his skin.

He averted his eyes.

“Did you, uh, hear me, Sherlock? This thing, we just put it behind us and never speak of this again.”

Blue eyes watched, unblinking, unnerving.

He shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat.

“Sherlock?”

“No.”

The word cut through everything, definite and final.

“Excuse me?”

“I said no, John. Denial is hardly going to help either of us.”

His fist clenched against his thigh.

“Denial?” He tried to laugh. “I’m not in denial.”

“From your reactions so far I would say that you are showing obvious signs of going through the Kubler-Ross grief cycle, of which denial is the second stage. The first is shock and I need not point out that that is what led to your extended stay in the bathroom. This is all hardly surprising considering the nature of what happened when taking into consideration the beliefs you have always – and rightfully – held regarding your sexuality and the conditioning instilled in you by institutions such as the army, despite, to quote your own words, ‘it’s all fine’.

His fist clenched tighter and he found it impossible to remain in his chair.

“I’m not in denial!”

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry. How can you be so calm?” He paced by the unlit fire. “We had sex, Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn’t even blink. “I am aware of that, John. I was there.”

Both hands were now fists.

“This isn’t one of your little experiments. We had sex….”

“Yes, and we both enjoyed it, a reason why this is so distressing for you. Anger is also the third stage.”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes. Thank you for that.”

“Like I said, it is all perfectly understandable. This has all come as a shock to you and you are grieving the loss of your ordered little world.”

“My ordered little… Sherlock, I am not going to stand here and listen to you make up something just so you can feel better.”

“I never make up things, you know that, and this is hardly complicated. You are a heterosexual man who had just discovered that the labels society insists on slapping on us are flawed and pointless, that life is not a collection of absolutes. You have lived a life defined by your sexuality. You are a man who likes women. Regardless of what we have done here tonight you are still a man who likes women, and regardless of what you might do in the future you will always be a man who likes women.”

He frowned. “Are you saying I could be bisexual then?”

“No, that’s just the labels talking again. Society does that to try and organise, to understand, but the only one who needs to understand is you. Have you ever been attracted to another man before or ever considered doing anything sexual with another man?”

“No.”

“And yet – at the time at least – you had no objection to me taking you to my bed.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, about that….”

“The question is why,” Sherlock said cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “And that is something only you can work out. But don’t try to define who you are by the limited and frankly tedious labels that society insists upon. You are who you are not who society demands you be. It is society’s role to try and define you, not yours to define yourself by society.”

The fingers returned to the mouth and it was clear that the conversation was over. He was just uncertain as to what the conversation had been about.

*-*-*

“Have you ever, you know, with a guy?”

“Of course I have.”

*-*-*

He was confused. He was more than just confused.

He spent three hours on the internet looking up about sexuality, flicking from page to page on Wikipedia, before closing the laptop in a fit of frustration. Nothing made sense any more. Everything he thought he had known, all the order he had had in his head, gone, vanished, destroyed. He was adrift and helpless.

He called Harry.

*-*-*

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Because you wanted to know what it was like.”

*-*-*

He hadn’t seen Harry since before he had broken up with Sarah. Considering their conversation then he suspected she would not be surprised that they had gone their separate ways.

He didn’t particularly want to talk to Harry, but there was no-one else and he hoped, really hoped, that maybe she would understand.

She knew something was up right away – he had no other reason for seeing her after all – but she was tactful and sober enough to not call him on it immediately.

They talked about nothing for a long time before her gentle and not so gentle needling forced his question out.

“Have you ever, you know,” he said vaguely with a wave of his hand, “with a guy?”

She looked at him in surprise before pulling a face.

“Of course I have,” she said. “Provided of course we’re talking about sex here and not, you know, bungee jumping or something.”

“And?” he said.

She looked at him. “And what?” she said. “Since when do you want all the juicy kiss and tell details?”

He tried to get her to forget it and change the subject but Harry was just as stubborn, if not more so, than him.

“It was fine,” she said. “Probably would have been better had I not been so pissed, but probably wouldn’t have done it otherwise. And it helped that he looked like Jake Gyllenhaal. Now that’s one bloke I wouldn’t kick out of bed. What’s this about anyway? Why the sudden interest in my love life? You not getting any now Sarah’s out the picture?”

The conversation went downhill from then on, and then she gasped.

“Oh my god, you slept with Sherlock, didn’t you?”

The denial was on his tongue but got no further than that. He went to get them some more drinks. He suspected they would need them. He knew he did.

“So is this some kind of sexual identity crisis then? Worried your heterosexual tag might be slipping?”

Worried? No. Utterly petrified? Completely.

“Relax,” she said with a smile that failed to make him do just that. “You’re as straight as you’ve always been. Not as if you like blokes in general, and anyway it’s not exactly surprising. You’ve been infatuated by him since you met. Makes sense it would go physical. Pretty obvious you’re in love with him.”

That was both what he had and had not wanted to hear.

“Must have been pretty good or you wouldn’t be so confused. Which leaves the all big important question; you gonna do it again?”

He wished he had an answer.

*-*-*

He still remembered the taste, the smell, the feel of Sherlock against him. He sometimes woke up panting, hand down his pyjamas, Sherlock’s name on his lips.

His body at least knew what it wanted. At least he thought it did.

*-*-*

He was drunk. Sherlock was lying on the sofa nursing a nicotine patch.

“She’s slept with men, hasn’t she?”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t even open.

“What? Oh. Yes.” He didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock knew the conversation between him and Harry. Even in his drunken state he figured it would be obvious.

“And if she fell in love with a man tomorrow despite a lack of physical attraction, would she be any less gay?”

He was still confused.

He was too drunk to consider an answer and turned to stumble to his own room. He stubbed his toes on the first step and tumbled down, his head spinning.

“Why did you kiss me?” he said resting his head against the lower steps.

There was a pause. He wondered if he could fall asleep where he was.

“Because you wanted to know what it was like,” came the final reply.

He supposed that made sense. It was certainly true. He had wanted to know, and now he knew, and now he was drunk and he rarely drank, and…

He woke up the next morning in his own bed, a bucket on the floor and a glass of water on the side. The answers though, were still beyond his reach.

*-*-*

He was physically attracted to Sherlock.

The realisation was both a shock and a comfort.

The question was; was he physically attracted because he was in love with him, or was he in love him because he was physically attracted?

*-*-*

He couldn’t help but feel a sense of revulsion when the guy at the club kissed him. It was all stubble and sweat and maleness.

It did help to serve one purpose though; it wasn’t men he was attracted to. Just Sherlock.

*-*-*

“You’re not gay.”

“No.”

“And you’re not bisexual, bi-curious, homoflexible, heteroflexible, or heterosexual.”

“Labels, John. Dull. Predictable. Boring.”

“Asexual then?”

“You’re missing the point.”

It had been a week since his conversation with Harry, longer still since the incident. He was still somewhat confused.

“Then tell me, what are you? What am I?”

“That’s easy. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and you’re John Watson.”

*-*-*

His body wanted Sherlock. His heart wanted Sherlock. His mind was still confused.

*-*-*

He remembered the intensity with which Sherlock had looked at him, the feeling of being the centre of the great man’s attention, the fingers that had played him like an instrument. The taste, the smell, the feel, the sounds he had made, the look on his face at climax.

His. For that short time it had been his. His and only his.

He wanted that again. He wanted it so much.

*-*-*

It looked like some kind of sci-fi thriller with that camp bloke who seemed to pop up everywhere. Torchwood the BBC3 listings said, repeat obviously. He vaguely recalled that it had something to do with Doctor Who, but it was yet another reminder of how much television he had missed while he had been busy in Afghanistan.

He had little else to do, Sherlock was elsewhere and there was nothing else on. He settled down to watch.

“You’re kidding me!” some Welsh character was exclaiming to some guy in a suit. “Really, though? Really? Christ almighty! He’s nice, though? Is he? Is he? Oh my God. I mean, since when?”

“It’s weird,” said the Welsh guy who was apparently dating the camp guy in the coat. “It’s just different. It’s not… men. It’s… it’s just him. It’s only him. And I don’t even know what it is, really.”

He switched off the television and stared at the blank screen.

*-*-*

“How do you feel?”

“Strange.”

*-*-*

Sherlock’s back hit the wall with a surprising umph. Neither noticed as their mouths and hands were too busy doing other far more pleasurable things. Surprisingly it was Sherlock who did the pushing away this time, hair already ruffled, his black shirt held together by a single button.

“John, while I am not adverse to this development, I need you to be certain of what you are doing. I am not someone who takes sexual intimacy lightly.”

“You took it well enough last time.”

Sherlock didn’t smile. “I am serious. Last time was a single isolated incident, this time I fear I may not be so… detached.”

“Detached?” He bent forward to lick his tongue across Sherlock’s collar bone. His skin tasted slightly salty. “You didn’t seem all that detached.”

“John, if we do this, I need to know that you have thought this through. I need you to have considered all the possibilities.”

He took a step back. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t want to think about this, because if I do my mind is going to take over and we both know where that leads.”

“John.”

“No, let me finish. I have thought about this and this is what I know; I’m not gay, I don’t like men, I’m not attracted to men, but god help me, I like you, I’m attracted to you. Now, I have no idea what this really means, but I want you, and I had rather hoped that maybe you wanted me too.”

There was a long pause and then Sherlock smiled; a slow, genuine, brilliant smile.

“Always.”

*-*-*

“Why? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because there are some things you need to know about my brother.”

*-*-*

“How do you feel?”

They stayed on Sherlock’s bed. They were both sated and naked, stretched out on top of the covers. There was a mark on Sherlock’s ceiling, some sort of experiment perhaps.

“Strange,” he said then cleared his throat because he could feel Sherlock watching him. “Better than last time.”

“Not about to run away again?”

He smiled because although the thought had occurred to him he’s comfortable where he was. “That was a tactical retreat,” he said instead.

“Ever the soldier.”

He lay there for a little while longer before rolling onto his side and took the opportunity to look, really look at Sherlock. He undoubtedly had the body of a man, there were no breasts for example, but he figured he could cope.

His mind still told him that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he had gotten better at not listening to it.

Leaning over he brushed his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, taking in the feel of very light stubble before bending down to press a kiss against the still swollen lips.

“That,” he said carefully aware of the way the Sherlock’s eyes had never left him, “was amazing.”

A slight wry smile touched Sherlock’s mouth. “You think so?”

“Of course I do. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

Sherlock’s smile grew. “Piss off.”

The laugh ended with him on his back and Sherlock crouched in front of him. Turned out oral sex from a man wasn’t all that different than from a woman.

*-*-*

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk.”

“People do little else.”

*-*-*

Lestrade was the second person to notice.

He wasn’t sure what gave it away since neither of their public actions had changed at all. Sherlock still infuriated most people, while he still stood around in the background either sighing or acting as a human sounding board.

Until Lestrade pulled him aside after Sherlock had disappeared somewhere with his coat flapping, he hadn’t thought anyone else had noticed.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lestrade said his voice low and somewhat warning. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the case. “I may not know Sherlock very well, but I’ve worked with him on and off for six years now, I don’t want to see him hurt.”

He assured the detective that he had no plans to hurt Sherlock and with his cheeks only a touch red managed to make his escape. It had been embarrassing, true, but not as bad as facing the first person who had found out.

*-*-*

“Ah, John, so glad you could join me.”

It wasn’t as if he had had the choice. The black car had picked him up and Anthea – or Clarissa as she was called this time – was not someone he particularly wanted to argue with. He was still unsure as to what she could do with that BlackBerry.

They ended up in an empty underground parking lot, two chairs and a small fold out table. Mycroft was sat in one chair, his umbrella point on the ground, the handle swinging between his hands.

“Please, take a seat.”

He figured it wasn’t worth arguing.

“I’m sure you can hardly surprised by this meeting,” Mycroft said in a measured tone. “I believe congratulations are in order. A physical relationship with my brother? How’s that working out for you?”

“Good.” He cleared his throat not bothering to figure out how Mycroft knew. It was always better not to know. “Yes, great. It’s great.”

“Well that is excellent news,” Mycroft said. “I wish you both all the best. However, and I hope you can excuse this as brotherly concern, but you should know that my brother is not one to enter into a physical relationship lightly. By my reckoning you would be only his fourth sexual partner.”

“His fourth? There were only three before me?”

“Indeed. Two young men, a young woman, named Irene I believe, and now you, Doctor John Watson.”

He shifted slightly in his seat. Mycroft always did make him feel uncomfortable, even when they weren’t talking about such personal matters.

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because there are some things you need to know about my brother. Through his past… dalliances he has managed to conclude what some of us had suspected for some times, that he can only enjoy physical intercourse if he is emotional invested in the person he is with. He is, in his own words, a high functioning sociopath, and as such is not one to become easily emotionally attached. He, therefore, does not routinely indulge in physical intimacy. Do you understand what I am saying?”

He frowned. “But… but I caught him. He was kissing. He said it was a former lover.”

“Ah, yes. That was indeed a former lover, but not a current one. The kiss would have been little more than an experiment, to see if intimacy was still possible.

“And the guy with his phone number?”

“Which guy with the phone number?”

He felt ridiculous for asking but doubted Mycroft would let it go. “There was a guy, some months back, part of a case. Sherlock flirted with him to get the information we needed. I told him off for leading the poor bloke on, making him think he might call. Sherlock told me it wasn’t outside the range of possibility that he would call.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said his small smile as scary as anything he could have done. “A ruse.”

“A ruse?”

“He had no intention of calling, but he needed the information, both about the case and your reaction.”

“My reaction?”

“Yes. Annoyance is a very complex thing, John. You were annoyed, he was no doubt trying to determine why. You need not worry. He was no doubt rather flattered to figure out it was due to your jealousy.”

“Jealousy.”

“Possessiveness. You have been protecting my brother from the moment you met him. You killed a man to save his life. You declined to even hear my offer of money.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“A necessary evil. I find that some people don’t tend to come if I just say please.”

“And now?” he asked. “Is this some kind of warning?”

“A warning?” Mycroft laughed. “Oh no, my dear John. I would never presume to do such a thing. This is merely a conversation.”

“In an empty underground car park?”

“So hard to find places nowadays where one can be overlooked.”

He pressed his lips together.

“My brother likes you, John. In fact, I would go as far as to say that as far as he is capable, he is in love with you.”

He shifted in his seat.

“Emotions have never been my brother’s strong point and as such they can confuse him. He may also struggle to express them. Please bear this in mind as your relationship develops and remember that he does not share his bed lightly. That is all.”

He nodded recognising both a warning and a dismissal. He rose to his feet.

“It was good talking to you again, John,” Mycroft said. “And congratulations once again. Mummy was delighted.”

He found that as disturbing as anything Mycroft had ever said to him and he fought to put it out of his mind as soon as possible.

He had four text messages waiting on his phone when the black car pulled back into signal range. Unsurprisingly they were all from Sherlock.

Need milk.  
SH

Where are you?  
SH

Tell Mycroft to shove his umbrella where the sun doesn’t shine.  
SH

We still need milk.  
And cheese.  
And more of those smiley biscuits.  
SH

He smiled to himself and shook his head. The car dropped him off at the nearest twenty-four hour Tesco to Baker Street. He didn’t even have to ask.

*-*-*

With the real thing well within his grasp the dreams stopped. He didn’t miss them. Reality was far better anyway.

*-*-*

He stopped thinking of Sherlock as a man, he was just Sherlock. He got the impression that had Sherlock been a woman he would have fallen for her anyway, the fact he was in the body of a man was different but not insurmountable.

Sherlock was just Sherlock; arrogant, frustrating, brilliant, maddening, extraordinary, unpredictable, surprising, and a dozen more words which barely summed him up. There was always something new, something interesting and he wouldn’t miss it for the world, especially when Sherlock would whirl round and fix him with that look, with those eyes and with that smile.

No wonder people like Lestrade started to notice.

*-*-*

The possessiveness faded. He wasn’t sure how or when that happened but it did. Of course Sherlock was the first one to notice.

“You don’t clench your fists any more when people show an interest in me.”

“Hmm?”

He had been typing up his blog and Sherlock had been reading the newspaper. The question had therefore appeared out of nowhere.

“Your fists,” Sherlock repeated a small frown on his face. “Yesterday that new detective didn’t seem to bother you. Why?”

“Oh. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s because I know it doesn’t mean anything. He can flirt all he wants, but it’s my bed you crawl into.”

Sherlock looked at him over the paper and he could see the small smile. They went back to their respective occupations. It only lasted a few more minutes before Sherlock folded up his paper and looked thoughtful.

“John?”

“Yes.”

“Busy?”

“Depends. Why?”

“I have just had the sudden urge to crawl into your bed. I wondered if you would be interested in joining me.”

Put like that, it was hard to say no.

*-*-*

It wasn’t without its difficulty. For a while he still had to tell his mind that the sex was fine, that he wasn’t supposed to be freaked out about it or feel ill at the thought. Slowly though it all started to become normal and they fell into a routine of sorts.

The first time he went down on Sherlock was a little strange. Sherlock had told him it was hardly necessary but it was something he had wanted to do. He was surprised to find he didn’t hate it as much as he thought he might although he knew his own limits. He refused to give in to any thoughts of dislike, so focused on the positives and rather than pull away at the end, he pressed Sherlock’s hands to his head and made his wishes clear. Sherlock’s reaction and expression made it all worthwhile.

As for the rest, well, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought and it turned out Sherlock was a more than enthusiastic bottom.

*-*-*

“It’s just you, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s not men… just you.”

“I’m flattered.”

*-*-*

He sighed and rubbed his thumb against his forehead when they were finally outed. Sherlock of course ignored it, being as he was in a world of his own. It had been inevitable that everyone else would find out eventually. The only question had been a matter of how.

In his idle moments he had considered how it would go.

There was the accidental slip, where one of them said something without thinking. There was the being caught doing something affectionate in public. There was – and he shuddered to think about it – the random drugs busts where secrets would be spilled and gossip started.

In the end it was probably just a combination of little things.

“My god,” Anderson had breathed, “anyone would think they really were shagging.”

In that moment everyone else froze because once pointed out everyone realised the truth. It was Lestrade who naturally took control and everything snapped back to normal, or as close to it as was now possible.

“I’m not surprised by the freak but I didn’t think Watson was gay,” he heard Anderson say to Donovan later.

“I’m not,” he said standing behind them. “Although it’s hardly any of your business.”

Donovan had at least looked slightly embarrassed but it was clear Anderson wanted more answers.

“But you are shagging him,” Anderson said.

“Like I said, none of your business.”

“So if you’re not gay, what are you?” Anderson said.

He shrugged. “I’m John Watson,” he said and then left them to it.

*-*-*

He was John Watson, doctor, former solider, breast man, put upon side kick and lover of the world’s only consulting detective.

*-*-*

He wasn’t gay.

*-*-*

It was fine. It really was all fine.

*-*-*

The End

*-*-*  



End file.
